


Minimum Wage

by Kei_LS



Series: We Don't Work for Free [2]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Breast Fucking, Choking, Drugged Sex, Father/Son Incest, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Consensual Touching, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Parent/Child Incest, Sex with an object, Slade Wilson's A+ Parenting, but like.... grant is put in different clothes, is there a tag for that? is that a thing we tag?, still an F-, there's no forced crossdressing, well. 'clothes', with a male partner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24657187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kei_LS/pseuds/Kei_LS
Summary: Grant moves. Of course he moves. Slade, no longer able to keep distant vigil as a result, follows.
Relationships: Grant Wilson/Slade Wilson
Series: We Don't Work for Free [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782751
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Delanoble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delanoble/gifts).



> (Ain’t Worth This)
> 
> Happy birthday. Please enjoy the ride that is Slade's complete lack of boundaries. And sense. And ability to cope like a normal person. Grant's, too.
> 
> And thank you, for letting me harass you long, long, long into the night.

The thing about Slade is…. Once he makes a plan, he’s convinced he’s right.

Grant is under zero illusions about that. About him. And yet.

“You look better.”

Here he is again. Here they are. Again. He burns under it, under Slade’s gaze as readily as he had the first time, and still.

To fall to this.  _ Again _ .

It rankles and it burns but worse it all just felt so inevitable.

When he’d woken up in his apartment, way late into the morning on  _ that day _ , he’d ached in ways he never even imagined. There were still marks, sore and just under the skin, and Grant could feel all of them. Had traced them, laying dazed on his back and staring blankly up at the ceiling and unwilling to investigate what had been ransacked in the wake of Slade’s...assessment. The worst of it may actually have been how  _ good _ he’d felt laying there, discovering new and interesting twinges and the way he responded to every single curious drag and prod of his own fingers.

Getting up had taken an embarrassing amount of time and not all because of the pain (and then, excruciatingly  _ because _ of the pain). Slade hadn’t been gentle. He hadn’t been kind. He’d been (obsessive, possessive, mad, mocking, annoying, smug) - Grant shivered at the memory of it then and feels an echo of that shiver now. He couldn’t escape it that day. Returning to his routine had been out of the question. But every part of his life had been compromised in one confusing hazy night by Slade.

He couldn’t escape it. He isn’t stupid, despite everyone’s opinion on the matter. Slade’s presence had infected everything, from his managers to the bouncers to some of the more flirty coworkers he’d had. He hadn’t wanted to know the details. Knowing that it had all  _ changed  _ was enough.

Of course he ran.

Gotham might have been the closest, but it brought different complications whether he was discovered or not and Grant wasn’t quite desperate enough to go to one of the three fuckiest cities on the planet just to make a point. No point in going to New Jersey when it’d only shift him an hour out of his way. He’d go to Louisiana before he went to Florida, and Los Angeles….

Joey was in Los Angeles. Midwest was too small town, and he had less places to run quickly out of Minneapolis if he wanted to stay in the country (if he was going to be driven into crossing the border, he was crossing a fucking  _ ocean _ \- if only because it meant he’d get to fly). Ultimately, he’d run to Utah, mostly by getting fed up with his own brain and spreading out a map and pretending he couldn’t aim perfectly if he shut his eyes and just tossed. Getting lost in Salt Lake City was about as easy as getting lost anywhere else, and if Grant excelled at nothing else he could at least commit to a habit of finding the worst square of mostly neutral ground and camping on it.

He walks at night. Couldn’t ever find a way to explain why or how it felt safer, when for most it would absolutely be the opposite. Found familiar ground on the streets and tagged buildings and pockets of people that generously ignored him as long as he kept looking big and his eyes on the ground. It’s a comfort, mostly, to know that literally no one cared about him one way or the other as long as he didn’t loiter, didn’t stick his nose in other people’s business. The world was overrun with legends: heroes and villains, both super. And the truth is that someone was still more likely to get shot for being stupid and unlucky than run afoul of either group.

He enjoys the normalcy. Forgets that his mother is crazy, his father is the same of a different brand. Smiles as easily as he had at the club when he’s solicited on the corner, laughs with the girls and doesn’t linger because even if he was interested he didn’t have the cash. He’s the local well-dressed bum, no more or less nameless or weird and not out to cause trouble or be the hero they don’t want.

He’d clocked the car before it matched his stride. Sleek, black, and unremarkable with tinted windows. The gun was not, and had not been, a shock for a very long time. The voice that had ordered him to get in: unpleasantly familiar. He thought he might freeze up. Thought it might come from a dark corner, or just behind his door, or intimately into his ear while he was asleep. Maybe in a fucking convenience store.

With all this open space instead of a closed room tied down by a steady job, Grant’s proud to note his instinct is to bolt.

Slade doesn’t shoot him. Par for the course, Slade rarely threatens something so loud when the snap of his buckle is plenty deterrent. Except for the sword thing. That had been...Grant runs faster. Doesn’t get far. Gets further than he thought he might, so either Slade had taken his time or hadn’t expected him to run (the arrogant  _ fu- _ no, nope, not the time). He doesn’t know who’s driving the car, only knows that someone is because Slade abandons it so readily. Panics at the sound of Slade’s heavy tread and ducks under a swipe before retreating high. He’s not sure how he makes it to a roof. It’s a terrible escape plan. He’s not in New York. He makes it work.

Slade, true to bastard form, also makes it work. He slams face first into the roof with the assistance of Slade’s hand on the back of his head. Rears up with blood gushing down his face and into his mouth and elbows blindly. Grins savagely when it connects and something  _ gives _ before his arm is knocked and he’s half turned only to get slammed down again. His head spins, nausea swooping down and pooling low in his throat.

Slade looks down at him with a thin line of blood down his chin that is viscerally satisfying to see. He remembers that. He remembers how irritated Slade had looked. And he remembers, vividly, Slade’s hand closing around his throat.

And then, now:

He wakes up on a bed that isn’t the metal cot from the shelter. His arms ache, shoulders stiff from being held uncomfortably for a long time. He can feel whatever it is binding them goes up to his bicep, thinks he feels cord brush against his skin. He can barely breathe, each inhale is cut short. His ribs feel compressed, chest constantly filling up a too small space that’s uncomfortable and a bit panic inducing. There’s something covering his legs, smooth and familiar, and it’s not the blanket lazily dropped over him. His fingers had been covered, wrists tied with his arms extended behind him, fingers laced together, palms connected.

“You look better.”

Grant only needs to blink once to adjust to the flood of light in the room. It looks like a hotel room, fancier than Grant is willing to go for when left to his own devices, and Grant might have fallen for it if the place hadn’t been windowless. There’s a strange indent in the far wall too, and Grant is sure it’s hiding weapons. Safe house. Mostly unused, if he had to guess. He can’t quite sit up - it still hurts to breathe with anything more than shallow breaths, but he kicks his feet a little and does manage to prop himself up with some wriggling under Slade’s amused eye to look down at himself.   
  
The first thing he registers is an eye-searing orange. He grimaces, twisting his head to navigate the stiff clothing. He hasn’t ever worn a corset before. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t know what one looks like. At least that answered why he couldn’t fucking breathe. The familiar feeling on his legs are fucking garter tights. Silky and cool, black, and he clenches his teeth and sends Slade a caustic look. No guesses on why he was wearing those colors.

He can’t quite twist enough to see it all, but he knows there’s something on his head. Trying to knock it off doesn’t quite work, and he’s not actually keen on flopping around until he manages it while Slade watches him writhe. He’s not wholly sure what he’s wearing - maybe a thong, because he’s positive his dick isn’t flopping out but his ass feels bare and vulnerable. There’s something around his neck, too. Softer than the stiff leather he would have expected from a collar (and he wouldn’t put that past Slade, isn’t sure he can put anything past Slade after the last time they’d met).

“Do you want to see?” Slade asks. Grant knows he doesn’t care about the answer. Tries to roll himself off of the bed anyway and startles when his legs don’t coordinate and catch him. He’s saved from planting his face on the carpet by a strong hand closing around his arm, hauling him up. A thick arm curls around his waist, and it’s just as embarrassing and weird as it always is to be hauled around by anyone. “Idiot,” Slade chides. Grant’s distracted from scowling at him, caught by the reflection he’s confronted with in the full body mirror Slade drags him to.

_ It really is a corset _ , he thinks dazedly. Orange, with blue cord tying it all together to half suffocate him. It’s immediately eye catching. And embarrassing. And Grant tears his eyes away with a sharp breath, irritated at how warm his face feels. He knew what corsets looked like, and what they did, his last job should have desensitized him to shit like this a long time ago. But he’d never - it was - he’d never thought he could look so…. Big. And small. His chest was more than distracting, it was a feature: pushed up and pressed together and rounded out just a little until he really did look like he had breasts.

Slade laughs in his ear. Forces his head back and chides him. Tells him to keep looking, and Grant hates that the way he blushes makes him look like he’s been enjoying himself being unconscious and put into this. Then he sees the ears - large and black, one bent near the top, elongated dark bunny ears sticking up from his head, the band hidden in his hair. The band around his throat is a navy blue choker, tied in a bow in the back with a silver carrot just under his Adam’s apple.  _ At least I was right about the thong. _ It just barely covered him, which he supposes was the point, but he still couldn’t get over it. He’d never thought he could look nearly delicate, between his chest and the way his waist narrowed, Slade’s hands mostly putting in the work to keep him upright because he couldn’t quite get his legs to cooperate still. The tights even made his ankles look weirdly small, and - was that - “Did you give me  _ lipstick _ ?”   
  
Slade grins.   
  
He twists, recognizes the sleeves up his arms that are tied together by the same blue cord and yelps when Slade drops him unceremoniously. He crumples, landing hard on his knees and nearly falling back until Slade props him carelessly with his leg.   
  
“You’re almost done,” Slade is saying. Grant stares when he’s nudged forward, tracking his progress and shifting nervously at the plug he pulls from a drawer. It’s almost too long to be one, Grant’s nearly more comfortable calling it a slightly off dildo, but it’s orange with a black cottontail fluff at the top and flared way too wide.

“No,” Grant says. Tries to gather his leg up from under him and winds up on his side for his trouble. Slade doesn’t even try to stop him, watching smugly while Grant squirms, fingers slick and wet and stroking over the plug. Lubing it up. “No, Slade.”

“If you don’t cause a fuss, I’ll stretch you first,” Slade offers. Grant balks, and while he’s wasting time being offended Slade moves. He’s hauled up, all but tossed back against the bed, legs useless and chest pressed flat to the mattress. His arms aren’t free, his fingers aren’t free, and his legs are tingling but largely useless. With Slade’s hand holding him down, he can’t even thrash, and he refuses to feel grateful at the thick fingers that slide between his cheeks and then prod at his hole, working in roughly. He snarls into the blanket, mouth watering while Slade steadily fills an ache he has no right to touch on. It hadn’t existed before Slade had dragged him in front of a mirror. It hadn’t been insistent until he’d been pressed to the bed in the first place.

He doesn’t beg. It’s not that he’s above it, he never really has been, it’s just that he’s got his jaw locked around the sheets and if he tries to talk now he’ll probably choke on his own drool. He aches. Slade’s fingers don’t feel good scraping at him, pushing in too fast and a touch too dry, but he’s prodding deeper, rubbing in wide circles and pressing down confidently when Grant’s hips twitch up. Slade doesn’t stop, murmurs confidently to himself  _ ‘there it is, _ ’ and  _ ‘that’s it.’ _ Grant isn’t delusional enough to pretend it’s any kind of praise.

The rough drag keeps sending familiar sparks up his body though, and for all that he’s not enjoying this he can't help but feel like he’s arching back a little into it, eager and anticipatory for what might come next. That goes out the window the second he feels something cold and hard nudge at his hole. Blunt. He squirms, pressing himself to the bed and shaking his head roughly while Slade’s hand (broad, flat palm that’s the hottest point of contact and makes him want to melt) slides up to the back of Grant’s neck.

He can feel the plug twist, back and forth in small movements while Slade pressed it deeper to him. He’s not stretched enough, nowhere near gone enough to feel anything but panicked. He’s crushed down onto the bed, Slade’s teeth grazing his ear.

“Don’t fight it,” he warns quietly. “Push out, you can take it - you’ve taken bigger.” Grant growls, shuddering at the reminder and feeling tears prick at his eyes as more of Slade’s bulk covers his back, his weight bearing down on Grant’s shoulders while he continues to twist the plug into him.

“S-slade,” Grant whispers, lips barely moving against the blanket. “Slade, don’t, not this, not like - I don’t know what-”

“Push out,” Slade tells him again. Presses hard and Grant jerks, hips grinding painfully against the edge of the mattress and crying out roughly as the plug spreads him wider. “Grant.”   
  
“Either pull that out or shut the hell up,” Grant demands hoarsely. His heart beats unsteadily in his throat, he can  _ feel _ it, and he tries to tug his arms free restlessly while Slade’s hand slides under his chin and forces his head back further. He glares hotly, Slade’s eye boring down on him with implied threat and twists his hips as much as he can.

The faint smirk Slade gives him is the only warning, and then he forces the tail in, and Grant loses the little breath he has.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated tags: drugging, forced drugging, orgasm denial, titty fuck with a male partner, blowjob, implied incest, sex with an object, anal plug - the implied incest is between Joey and Grant, but not that it happened... just that Joey might want it to happen told through the lens of an unreliable narrator. So. You know. There's that.
> 
> So sorry it took so long crem, special thanks to everyone that took the time to comment and give me the energy but also the drive to finish this... I hope you can forgive me for the tease, since Slade was determined to do just about anything but fuck him. OTL

There’s something about the pitch of Grant’s voice when he next makes a sound that lets him know the kid tore. Not a lot, and even if he had Slade doubts it would have lasted any length of time, but there’s a high pitched whistling whine laced through his breathy pants that speaks far more to pain than pleasure. Slade clicks his own tongue, disinclined to pity him for it, and hauls him onto the bed the rest of the way.

Three hours. That’s how long it takes for the drug to work its way through Grant’s system, and for his legs to look like they’re moving with any kind of coordination. Not numb - Slade had checked, dragging his fingers from ankle to tense calf to quivering thigh. Pressing up against the back of his knee had urged compliance, and Grant had growled at him like a rabid dog rather than whine at him like a beaten bitch.

Or an unruly pup. Slade had added the strap for the bullet vibrator to the garter, nestled it in right between his balls under the thong ten minutes in after he’d started to curse and responded to Slade’s chiding by cursing more creatively. The ears were completely crooked, bent down further - one bent so irreparably it flopped soft and velvety and cute over one of Grant’s eyes.

Three hours. Someone of Grant’s size, with his accelerated heart rate and metabolism, his body’s adaptive abilities - someone his size and weight without the add-ons would probably be down at least half the day. Localized problem though, Grant hadn’t been out twenty minutes before he’d started to twitch awake after Slade had injected him in the thigh. He’d stuck his arm after, in the car, and watched tense and critical when Grant had twisted up against his seat belt and hissed through his teeth. 

Apparently, the drug burned. Enough for Grant to complain about it half-conscious. So probably, it would be searing agony on a normal target. Not a sedative, but a painful paralytic - Slade could work with that. He’d have to tell Arthur about the unintended side effects later, he’d promised to document everything he noticed in exchange for the experimental drugs to begin with. Besides, he wanted his target to hurt. Wanted him to burn with humiliation, wanted him to try and scream through a slowly collapsing trachea, wanted to feel him buck and watch him cry, pudgy eyes bulging out of his thick skull and face turning purple with- 

Slade breathes in sharply and loosens his grip on Grant’s knee before he can crush it. Pushes it down and watches the tantalizing flash of damp, sweat-slick skin poke out from under the thong. Every labored breath Grant gives emphasizes the swell of his chest, pressed together and given firm shape and definition and begging to be squeezed. To have his teeth sinking into the flesh. It's been long enough that Slade doesn’t have any marks on him anymore. That’s the worst part. If Slade’s marks disappear, anyone else’s absolutely will, and then how is he supposed to  _ know _ ? With Grant fucking off in every shady part of any city he can think of - the chase had been a  _ joke -  _ did the kid even realize it was about more than just being his first? 

Slade doubts it. Grant enjoys being obtuse. Riling Slade up. Push every one of his limits and then shudder under the attention like Slade can’t read the dare on his face every time. Like now. 

He doesn’t look fucked out - Slade is intimately aware of that expression. His face isn’t soft enough, eyes open too wide and too aware, the flush to his face is more stubborn than blissful and his lips aren’t nearly wet or bruised enough from his own teeth. The breathing is about right - but it’s still too fast, fighting off the onslaught of pleasure and by now the burn of an overworked vibrator pressed up against him so intimately. The fabric is wet enough he can see the perfect outline of Grant’s dick, but he’s not humming or near-purring in sated pleasure because Slade hasn’t let him finish. Won’t. 

Not yet. 

The eye that glares at him is wet, dark lashes thick and clumping together. But he hasn’t stopped paying attention, and maybe that’s Slade’s own fault. His distraction. Twisted up on his side, cottontail bouncing as he seems to catch on to his own free range. Slade’s expecting the kick, not the way Grant full on eels up to slam their heads together. Slade catches him by the back of the neck an inch before they connect, squeezes roughly and smirks when Grant snarls in his face. Pulls the brat flush and watches him twitch as their chests press together. 

It’s nothing to follow him down. To press his hips lightly to Grant and let his scattered nerves do the rest. He can tell the boy doesn’t mean to wrap legs around him, but feels ankles dig into the small of his back all the same and Slade hums his approval. 

“You look better,” he says again. Means it, possibly because of the scowl Grant gives him. “Your place is bigger. Jobless, though. What are you doing for your meals, son?” His voice dips, patiently patronizing, and Grant pants under him. He’s not quite keeping his hips still, Slade can feel his erection wet and insistent and twitching up against Slade’s own. 

“Giving out blowjobs for coins and letting greasy old meatheads smack my dick for fun,” Grant sneers. It’s the exact wrong thing to say, and Slade leans back with a thoughtful hum while he traces an appreciative eye over how deceptively easy Grant turns looking like a whore into. To his credit, he figures it out before Slade actually pulls the wet fabric of the thong aside and Grant (thick, heavy, hard, wet, for  _ him _ ) springs free. “Don’t - don’t you -  _ aah! _ ” 

Slade flicks him hard enough to bruise and watches Grant try to curl up under him. His body shudders, knees coming up with a strangled sound and a few spurts of milky white drop from the head and back down.

“Really?” Slade asks, and lets his fingers wrap tightly around the base of Grant’s dick. Takes stock of him again as he lets go and Grant shifts under him and turns to hide his face against the pillow.

He’d meant what he said.

The boy looks  _ good _ .

Trapped on his side, under Slade’s thighs as he settles onto strong legs, Slade’s attention is torn between the dark cottontail shifting at the curve of Grant’s ass and the way his pecs move under the corset. It’s a tantalizing look, cleavage pronounced and the swell of them begging for rough licks and lingering bites. He lets his finger slide under the corset between Grant’s pecs and tugs, casually slides his finger under and between them slow and deliberate and watches Grant’s breathy coy look twist to snarling exasperation. His legs are pressing together, as much as he can make them, under Slade’s bulk.

He knows exactly what Slade’s mimicking, and for a long minute Slade considers it. He’d only just put the plug in, but that didn’t mean much. He knows how to turn Grant’s pain into something else, how to rile him up and cross his wires until he really can’t help himself. Knows it would just take a little work, which isn’t unusual with Grant.

But then Grant shifts under him again, the gloss of his lipstick smudging color onto his cheek. He can feel Grant’s thighs twitch in a vain attempt to coordinate his legs and move, and angry eyes lock onto him defiant and uneasy and expectant. He wants to push past those full lips to the wet heat of his mouth, feel his tongue pressed flat and his throat flutter and work around Slade. He wants to take Grant’s legs up, knows he can feel them but can’t really coordinate any of it with the drug still running through his system ( _ three hours _ , but he’d been unconscious for a lot of that so who knows what he regained control of first).

He wants to meet Grant’s eyes, as he pushes his cock through the tight press of Grant’s legs, sliding hot and hard and heavy over Grant’s own blatant erection; listen to him moan unsteadily for it. Like that, if Slade put him on his back, he’d end up fucking himself on his cute little tail in no time. Hips shifting unwillingly and pretty blush crawling down his neck, arms strained and tits pushed out with how he’d bound them, aching under him. But then he stares down, again, at the swell of Grant’s tits where they’re squeezed and pressed up under the corset. The thready fast and unsteady pulse of his heart in his throat. He lets himself get distracted in that, hands sliding firm and warm over the sides of the corset and down to his hips.

_ He looks good _ .

Slade hooks his fingers into the corset again, feels an ache settle between his legs when Grant bares his teeth at him and tugs him up closer. It’s nothing to slip his arm around Grant, pull his hair to keep his head craned back and dip his own head down to bite under his jaw. Can’t seem to help himself.

Grant twists, because he’s allergic to sitting still for any length of time, and shudders when Slade pulls his hips up and flush. He manages to kick a leg, finally cottoning on to his full range, but by then it’s too late. Slade settles the boy into his lap, drags his teeth down Grant’s throat and bites hard at the crook of it. Grant hisses, tenses, and Slade can feel that tension ride through him when he gives a slow, firm lick. Easy.  _ So _ easy.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think Grant wanted to give in. Since he does know better he bites again, harder. Keeps Grant’s head twisted back before the idiot can try to hit him with his chin or something equally asinine, and drags his tongue down. There’s a soft warble, another uneasy shift, and Slade bites at the swell of Grant’s chest with a throaty hum of his own and sucks at the skin. Firm, but not unwieldy, and Slade smirks against the skin and drowns in the thrill of it. At how nicely his boy’s pec fills his mouth. At the pitchy, muffled whine Grant can’t hide.

It’s nothing to follow him down. To lick between his tits and up, let his tongue curl and flick at the carrot at his throat. Grant’s feet plant on the mattress, but he doesn’t try to buck Slade off. Just trembles, thighs quivering against Slade’s sides. Slade scratches, from scalp to the back of his neck to the top of his shoulders, and Grant stares at him; skin stained a blotchy crimson.

“Stop,” he whispers. Biting at his lips again, shoulders trying to hunch, coy and sickening and sugar-sweet.

“Prove you want me to,” Slade challenges. Watches the indignation filter over Grant’s face and tugs at the corset again. “What part do you want me to fuck, Grant?”

“ _ I don’t _ ,” Grant snaps. Slade pats his cheek, offers him the most mockingly affectionate look he can make, and deliberately drags his hand from uplifted calf to knee to inner thigh again. He memorized it, that first time, all those little sweet spots Grant has, and he knows exactly how much pressure to put on his legs to get them to inch open a little wider. Encourage those hips to angle up a little more. He’s not hurting from the tail anymore, but Slade traces light fingers over the satin-covered bulge of his cock and teases at the soft skin just to the left of it exposed by the too-small thong.

“Let’s not play this game, Grant. I told you that I’d give you what you need. It’s not my fault you insist on being stubborn and refuse to ask.”

“Oh  _ screw you _ -” Grant’s breath hitches sharply, back arching a little when Slade flicks the bulge, dragging his nail down the outline of him, and he dips his head down again. Licks between heaving pecs while Grant garbles around a half-thought out protest. It’s nothing to hold onto his hips, to force him to move and rub up against Slade’s lower stomach, to slot their hips together and let Grant feel him. Grant’s whimper isn’t loud, but Slade can feel the eager little twitch of his hips and he grinds himself down. Grant shudders under him, mouth open like he’s begging or can’t catch a breath, and Slade noses along his jaw toward his ear. Nips roughly with a grin and finally feels Grant desperately try to knee his side.

“Now you’re shy,” he scoffs around a laugh. Crawls up and settles over his stomach, and takes a moment to study Grant’s face. Still splotchy, still angry, far more embarrassed than anything.

“One of us has to have shame.”

“Says the hooker.”

“I wasn’t!” Grant snaps, full offense. And, Slade supposes, that’s true. His blood still burns when he thinks back on it, though. Grant whoring his body out on a stage and encouraging greedy faceless fingers to slap and grope at him just for walking by. No sense of boundary, unless it’s Slade - unless it’s  _ family _ \- and that’s a different sort of infuriating. Something as hungry as it is possessive unfurls in his chest, turns over from a spark and grows into a growl in his throat and he wraps his fingers around Grant’s neck before he’s thought it out.

It’s a long minute, Slade not quite choking him and Grant not-quite passing out under his palm. Chest heaving, too-short, panicked.  _ Desperate _ . Maybe even afraid, but Slade can hear his legs kicking, the triple-time drumbeat of his unsteady rhythmless heart felt with the undulations of his body as Grant tries and fails to buck him off, watches his mouth open wider and Addie’s eyes grow bright and wet with tears. He squeezes harder, leans down and presses a soft kiss to the corner of Grant’s mouth, his cheek, and feels himself ache again at just the thought of fucking him until he’s sweet again. As if Grant has anything to fear from  _ him _ .

It’s that driving force in mind that has him squeezing tighter. Careful not to crush his trachea, not damage his throat as he thrashes, until he settles with a whistling breath. Slade releases him quickly, lets him shudder as he works his own pants open, shoves them down and strokes himself. Grant’s drooling by the time he notices, blanching and shaking his head unsteadily, but there’s more incoordination to him again. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing and shifting the silver carrot, and this time when Slade grabs the corset it’s with heavy intent. Grant gasps when he rips it, the material tearing, a deep grateful sound that he nearly chokes on. Slade lets him, squeezing the boy’s pecs instead and presses them together roughly.

That seems to be more than the boy can handle. He freezes, again. Stares, again. Blushes, a deep ruddy garnet that Slade damn near purrs at as he shifts himself forward and slides against soft damp skin. The kid’s rack isn’t quite big enough to cover him, but he doesn’t care. It’s still Grant he’s sliding against, still Grant he’s pressing up against him, and he hums as he tugs on red nipples and twists until Grant is whining sharp and soulful and alive.

“You still haven’t answered me,” Slade tells him, rocking slowly. He wants to make sure Grant feels every inch. Every slow dragging moment of his cock against heated skin, and the way it sends prickles of heat through them both. “I’ll milk you fucking dry, Grant. If that’s what you want. You just have to ask. Otherwise, I’m going to fuck you everywhere else, starting with your tits, and then cleanup will be your problem.”

“Y-you’re.. A s-sick fucking freak,” Grant shudders. Twists his head to the side and away, and it’d be more effective if he didn’t look like it was taking all of his willpower not to stare at the head of Slade’s cock poking through his tits.

“If you want to lick it,” Slade drawls, “I won’t stop you. Promise.” The look his boy gives him is venomous, all the way through, and Slade doesn’t think he can get enough of it. Of Grant’s anger and embarrassment and heat - of proof that he’s alive and himself, not an amalgamation of something someone else made. There isn’t a clone alive that Slade’s heard of that could give him such predictable stubbornness and unpredictable  _ softness _ , and he clings to the signs even as he defiles every single one of them.

He doesn’t stop playing with the nipples. Hard pebbling nubs that fit perfectly between the pads of his fingers, the slide of his cock against warm flesh comforting and addicting, and gradually the little sounds of Grant’s anger and embarrassment giving way to pain and pleasure and humiliation. It’s a thin line with his brats, and Slade crosses the border easily because he knows they can take it. Built them to take it. Take and take and take and offer up nothing in return, even if they insist on it anyway.

He doesn’t stop when he lets go of one pec to lightly trace Grant’s blushing cheek, and feels the heat pouring off of him in waves. Just gently guides his head back to see, watches Grant’s attention waver, his stoicism faltering as his eyes lower from Slade’s to the cock playing against his chest. It’s downright obscene, but Slade can see the little peek of his tongue poking out from his lips, the shivery little keen of hunger that gets caught in his throat, and so he pushes himself a little higher. Presses Grant’s chest up and against him and fucks into the warm tunnel of heat he makes of Grant’s body and feels his groan of surrender echo into a dull hum all along the underside of his cock.

God,  _ finally _ .

“Lick it,” he orders, voice low and intimate, not soft. The first tentative swipes are torture. Little gentle hints of wet and pressure and heat. Slade hadn’t thought himself particularly sensitive but all of his focus is on Grant. Is on the way he shuts his eyes, even while he sticks out his tongue. Hyper focused on the small shifts of movement, the soft kitten licks that just brush over the curved head of his cock, the way he gets closer and closer to the slit. Slade throbs, eager, hopeful, and eventually angles himself to feel the soft pass of Grant’s tongue along it. He growls over the boy’s little whimper, the slight recoil, and Slade leans over him more. Bright eyes stare up at him, meet his uncompromising desire, and surrender all over again. He only gets a little firmer, tilting his head up to try and avoid Slade’s stare boring down on him, and Slade doesn’t mind it. Can’t afford to. Not with Grant’s lips parting a little wider, when Slade encourages him with a hard twitch and slow roll of his hips.

It’s hot, when Grant’s lips press against his cock. Hot and soft, because that’s all Grant  _ is _ , malleable and moldable under Slade while that mouth opens wider on a whimper and he feels too-gentle suction against half his cock head. He tenses at the overwhelming burn in his blood, the heat that coils up his spine demanding and heady and  _ hungry _ .

“If you keep teasing me boy, you’re not going to like what happens,” Slade warns, shades too rough. But Grant doesn’t take that as a challenge, or as something to pull back and start _talking_ against, and Slade doesn’t think he’s ever felt so stupidly grateful before. Grant opens his mouth wider, tips his head back and Slade feeds himself into the boy with a low groan. Slides against his tongue and aches to do so much more while Grant whines and moans and squirms under and over and around him. “Suck,” he orders again.

Grant does. Gods, he does, and Slade drinks in the sight of red glossy lips spread wide and filthy around him, reaches down and traces his cheeks. Shifts to see himself press out against that soft cheek and trails rough fingers along his skin with almost tender care. Grant’s shut one of his eyes, the other still tearing up, and Slade makes him take another inch until he can feel Grant suck desperately and that irritating, sharp, addicting tongue pushes and slides over his length.

“If you were almost anyone else,” Slade growls, fingers dragging lower to that unsteady, racing pulse point in his neck again. He strokes, slowly, the long line of Grant’s neck and then goes back up. Thumbs roughly at the corner of his mouth. “I’d be fucking your throat and making you take it.”

It’s the truth. It’s damn near a promise. Grant, because his son is nothing if not a glutton in denial, groans around him like a fucking tease and coordinates just enough to curl his tongue around Slade when he tries to bob his head back and then lift it up again. Slade hums, lets himself sit and settle there, and wonders what it would take to keep this. To have Grant always on his knees, troublesome mouth filled with Slade’s cock, keeping it warm and wet regardless of if Slade was hard or not. Exhales sharply, because the thought is a little too real and a lot too tempting, with Grant’s flight tendencies.

He guides Grant through it, instead. Talks him how to suck, where to lick, what to do and mocks him when he tries to jerk his head or hands free and can’t. Pulls back, and smacks Grant’s face with his dick and then fucks his tits wet with Grant’s own saliva, when he adds even the hint of his own teeth.

“S-slade -  _ Slade! _ ” Grant yelps, the slide faster and wetter and so much easier. Slade ignores him, focuses on the way Grant fills his hands and thumbs over sensitive nipples until Grant is keening and pressing up into him with rough shakes of his head. Unfocused, aroused, and messy. Slade lets him writhe, makes him drown in the mess of feelings swimming through that thick head of his, and groans at how  _ good _ it feels.

“Your tits are perfect, aren’t they,” he says. Twists a nipple viciously before Grant can think of anything to say and huffs a laugh at the sharp, miserable whine it earns him.

“N-not - I don’t have-”

“You don’t have?” Slade repeats deliberately slowly. Lets go just to smack the sides of his pecs as they try to fall naturally and shove them up against the sides of his cock again and gets himself another sharp yelp in the process. “Sweetheart, if these aren’t tits you really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

At this rate, Grant might pass out even without the corset. It doesn’t look or feel like he’s taken a proper breath since he first started licking Slade’s cock right into his mouth, and what little blood isn’t in his face has drifted down to his cock if the way he’s humping (not bucking, no longer trying to remove Slade at all) the air means anything at all from what Slade can feel perched where he is. “You’re going to use your tongue, and your tits, and you’re going to keep doing so until I’m satisfied, Grant.”

“A-and if - if I  _ don’t _ ?” Grant demands, shoulders twitching in a way that probably means he’s clenched around his little tail. Slade cups his cheek, gentle and tender because for whatever reason  _ that’s _ what makes Grant freeze. Eyes wide staring up at him, all bright and ‘deer-in-the-headlights’ and unfathomable with their openness. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his own father’s hand on his face, but can handle his cock just fine. Fucking ridiculous.

“If you don’t,” Slade says patiently, “I will teach you exactly what it means to be just another boy in my bed.” He believes the threat, and Slade genuinely can’t tell if he believes it and is afraid or is hungry for it - Slade would accommodate him either way, but this doesn’t work if Grant knows that.

Learned that lesson with Joey. He moves again, watching his cock slide along Grant’s chest and leave a long glistening mess in its wake - one to match the wet smear on Grant’s cheek, actually. Sighs soundlessly when Grant shyly starts to lick at him again, pushing up to make it easier for the boy to suck and lick and get as messy and eager as he wants. Doesn’t stop, doesn’t think, beyond every pass of fire Grant leaves in his wake and how perfect every inch of him feels shuddering and moaning under him. Slade shudders, a second time, and somewhere between the rocking and Grant’s licking and moaning, he realizes he’s close. Blinks, as his balls tighten and the ache worsens and the first wet splashes drip against Grant’s collarbone.

He stares at the milky drops blankly, scrapes his teeth over his lips and pushes again. Crushes Grant’s tits against him, thick and hard and pulsing, and watches the surprise and something dark, hungry and angry and uneasy, flicker in Grant’s eyes as the next splatter lands across his lips. Watches him wrench his head back with a cry and the traitorous way his tongue slides over his lips to taste Slade anyway while he cums on the boy’s throat. Drags himself down and spills a thick pearly-white trail down to Grant’s sternum and under one of pecs. Over his stomach, as he settles just above the boy’s hips and lets the rest pool into and along his naval and abs.

Grant shudders under him, soft little whimpers with every exhale, and he still doesn’t look close to fucked out but even as Slade watches he bites and chews on his lips again. Slade lets him, shifts himself back and smirks a little at how askew his ears sit on his head, the small little shifts and twitches of Grant’s hips as he tries to move himself on the cottontail and drag the thong over himself for even a hint of real friction.

He doesn’t give Grant a chance to think again. Just lets him blink and stare in a daze in his own head and drags his hips again, lifts the boy onto his thighs and gives himself room to reach under him to grab the plug. Twist it slowly and watch Grant roll his head restlessly in a mix of denial and relief. Back and forth, back and forth, until Grant’s not just hard but trying to fuck himself on the plug. Slade doesn’t let it move even an inch out of him, watches the frustration build and his own seed slide and smear onto more of Grant’s skin like an obscene painting.

Joey would appreciate that.

Well, no, he probably wouldn’t. But only because he’d want to do it himself.

“You should call your brother,” he says, because it’s true. Grant has enough wherewithal to give him an incredulous glare, grimacing at the smear of mess he can see and feel and, tellingly, licks his lips again without seeming to realize it.

“You’ve got - to stop - talking about him like this,” Grant groans. It’s a plea more than anything, and Slade slides his hand firmly along the back of Grant’s sweaty thigh and hooks it over his shoulder. Keeps the other leg spread flat and starts dragging the tail out of him.

“He loves you, Grant,” Slade says. Grant makes a garbled sound, and Slade tugs the tail more just to let the boy feel the stretch. He doesn’t move his leg off. Presses his heel down somewhere high on Slade’s back and rolls his hips up, shameless and gorgeous, eyes rolling back as he chases his own pleasure in defiance of his own humiliation. Slade lets him, gives him the reprieve half because he’s caught up in watching. Pushes the tail back in and drags it out, wondering if it’s worth the effort to flip him just to watch his rim stretch wide and flutter around it. Watch his body eagerly try to keep the plug the way it had Slade’s cock.

He doesn’t, but it’s a near thing, and only because Grant’s eyes are fluttering open again, mouth wide and approaching a state of debauchery Slade refuses to miss.

_ I love you _ , he doesn’t say. Can’t. Grant’s too aware, and it’ll lead to a fight, and then Slade is going to be forced to fuck him fast and rough and make him remember who he belongs to. He feels it though, the thought nestling in the back of his head. It throbs in time with his heart, while Grant slowly fucks himself - lets Slade fuck him - with the damn tail. He tugs the thong aside, gently, and nearly undoes himself seeing Grant spring up stiff and wet and so  _ ready _ .

“That’s it,” he whispers in spite of himself. Grant only whines, makes a soft  _ ‘mmmmm _ ’ sound that tries to twist itself into a  _ ‘no _ ’ and peters out when Slade strokes him slow and firm and steady. Kinder than earlier, and it’s almost a wonder that the kid hasn’t already gotten himself off with how raggedly he pushes into Slade’s loose fist. How desperately he tries to fuck himself on the plug. Slade pushes him closer to it, twists his fingers and keeps the glide slow, feeling how hard Grant is and knowing it’s from him. From what he’s done, what he’s doing, that has Grant so twisted and out of sorts and all but begging for it. The plug is going easier, in and out, around the widest part of the pseudo-carrot, and Slade doesn’t police any of the way Grant moves now. Grunts and steadies himself when Grant’s other leg lifts to hook on his other shoulder.

The kid’s arms are still tied, and he doesn’t make mention of it as Grant writhes like he’s back on stage, back in that VIP room and spread open, just turns his head and nips his thigh and licks a long stripe to his knee while he watches Grant fuck himself apart. Holds the plug half out of him and tightens his fist and lets Grant rock desperately between them, running his tongue restlessly over his teeth while his own cum dribbles past Grant’s nipples and to his shoulders, back up his throat, the boy’s head thrown back as he jerks and both heels dig hard into Slade’s shoulder blades.

“Good,” Slade murmurs. “Keep going. Take what you want, that’s it. Enjoy it, I’ve got you,” he encourages, nearly dizzy with how Grant writhes for him until he stills and curls up with grit teeth, a whine high and thready slipping through as he cums over his own stomach and shakes. Pants, open-mouthed with high breathy sounds when Slade moves the plug to fuck him through it, and forces his hips to drop back down and his body to fold for it. Leans up with his legs still hitched and trapped and abandons his cock but not the harsh jerking of the plug to reach up and under the pillows under Grant’s head.

“S-slade, Slade - Slade -  _ Slade, stop, I can’t aaahh! _ ” Grant cries, writhing under him and not getting anywhere. Slade takes him up on his open-mouthed invitation, biting at his lips and growling as he forces his tongue inside and Grant only mewls for it with another shiver and tries to press up wet and sticky to his stomach.

“Three hours,” Slade murmurs, when he pulls his head back and Grant is breathless and dizzy and still trying to lick at his tongue.

“Wh- _ hah _ ?” Grant mumbles back. Slade gropes his side, forces the plug back in fully and grinds it up against Grant’s prostate until his keen turns into a sharp high-pitched cry and drool slips from the corner of his mouth.

“You have three hours, Grant.” His phone beeps, a loud and sharp chirp from the dresser, and Slade leans back and pulls the syringe with him, watching Grant’s eyes focus instantly onto it and the small recoil of his shoulders. “If you’re still here by then, I’ll assume you want to go another round.” He sticks the drug into his shoulder, mostly because he can, and rolls a wet stained nipple between his fingers and tugs roughly.

“F- _ ffuck! Ow- god- what the hell is-nngh _ !” Grant shudders, and yelps when Slade pricks his thigh again, too.

“You do remember your survivalist training, don’t you?” Slade asks lightly, when Grant gives him a look that’s as wary as it is pain-filled. The flicker of understanding is drowned quickly by outrage, and then more pain as he tips his head back with a shudder and a whine. “Three hours, boy. If you fail, I’ll be here to teach you all over again.”


End file.
